


From Berlin With Love

by 1986_Special



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Q (James Bond), Berlin (City), Coffee Shops, Espionage, Happy Ending, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Canon Compliant, Romance, Secret Identity, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27151643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1986_Special/pseuds/1986_Special
Summary: While on a mission in Berlin, Bond ends up befriending Quincy, an English exchange student who works part-time at a coffee shop. After he completes his mission, he finds himself coming up with excuses to visit the man when he’s in town.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 17
Kudos: 225





	From Berlin With Love

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about spies, and I haven't written fanfiction in over a decade, but I recently re-watched Skyfall, and this happened before I could stop it. Not sure why this has to be explicitly said, but please don't post this story anywhere else. Thanks for reading!

No sooner does Bond secure the hard drive when he hears the angry voices of the Berger Brothers coming from downstairs. He doesn’t blame them. He'd be pissed, too, had he been led on a wild goose chase all over Berlin. A few seconds later, the voices switch from angry to agitated, and Bond hears the sound of heavy footsteps running up the stairs.  
  
“They’ve found the bodies then,” Bond says.  
  
“An anonymous tip has been placed with the police,” Tanner says in his ear, MI6's Chief of Staff currently double-hatting due to limited manpower. “They should be on their way.”  
  
“Good,” Bond answers. Even if he takes the hard drive with him, the room full of cocaine should be enough to lock them up for quite some time.  
  
“In the meantime, 007, perhaps you should make yourself scarce.”  
  
Bond doesn’t need to be told twice. He thanks Tanner—really, they should find a new quartermaster soon—opens a window and climbs out. He’s lost his gun earlier, and while he’s confident that he can take the men in hand-to-hand combat, he’d rather not get shot.   
  
Earpiece removed and bloody coat disposed, he casually makes his way to a nearby cafe. He hears the sound of sirens blaring in the background just as he pushes the door open.   
  
“Back so soon, Mr. Sterling?”  
  
Bond grins at the Englishman behind the counter.He first met Quincy when he was doing reconnaissance work in the area a few days earlier, the graduate student’s messy hair, green eyes, and shameless extortion immediately endearing him to Bond. “I thought I told you to call me Richard," he says.  
  
“Only if you order a pastry to go with your coffee.”  
  
“You only want me for my money.”  
  
“I never claimed otherwise.”  
  
Bond smiles and pays for a muffin and a latte. In a few hours, he’ll be on a flight back to London where he’ll report to M, get a few days of mandatory post-mission leave, before eventually being sent somewhere new. This conversation, like many conversations before it, will be forgotten.  
  
===  
  
Three months later, Bond finds himself back in Berlin. His mission is ridiculously simple: Intercept a package in the U-Bahn. The entire thing predictably goes off without a hitch, but now, he’s stuck in Berlin with nothing to do.  
  
Not used to being idle, Bond calls M and asks to be assigned his next mission, but the shrewd woman tells him to stay put until his flight departs.  
  
“Go sightseeing for all I care,” she snaps at him.  
  
Bond suspects that M just doesn’t want him hanging around in London when MI6 is being subjected to an internal review. Incidentally, 006 has also been assigned to a rather tame babysitting mission in Africa. Tanner neither confirms nor denies this, which, Bond supposes, is enough of an answer.   
  
Bond can be obedient when he wants to. He skips the usual tourist spots—Checkpoint Charlie, Brandenburg Gate, Charlottenburg Palace—and walks around the city center instead. While he hasn't seen all there is to see in the capital, he's been back enough times not to bother playing tourist. Perhaps the only thing that excites him now is the prospect of seeing a fully operational Trabant on the road. It's not his Aston Martin, but the German car is iconic in its own right. Bond is just thinking about taking one for a spin when he realizes that he's back in the same neighborhood he was in the last time he was in town.  
  
On a whim, he enters the same cafe he visited months before. He isn't expecting to see the young man again. After all, Quincy is a graduate student—

 _—a very busy graduate student_ , Quincy's voice interrupts him in his head. _  
  
_A very busy graduate student who only works at the cafe part-time. Bond assumes that he has better things to do with his time than sell coffee and pastries. 

Now it's not often that Bond's hunches are wrong, and it's even rarer for him to be happy about it, but in this case, he's pleasantly surprised to spot Quincy wiping a table. He hasn’t changed much. Then again, it’s only been several months, Bond reminds himself.

The expression on his face when he sees Bond is one of confusion, followed by a small smile of delight.  
  
“Mr. Sterling, wasn’t it?” he asks.  
  
Bond removes his scarf. “I’m touched that you remember my name.”  
  
“You’re not that special.” Quincy answers without missing a beat. He stations himself behind the counter. “What brings you back to Berlin?”  
  
“Just hand-delivered a gift to one of our clients,” he says, remembering that he told Quincy he's in international sales. He then points to the glass case of pastries. “What would you recommend?”

Bond visits the cafe for the next three days at varying hours of the day and doesn't even think to ask why Quincy always seems to be around—not when he's learning so many things about the man. For example, he learns that Quincy really misses a particular brand of tea that isn’t available in Germany, that his professor can’t teach to save his life, and that he really enjoys attending raves.

The last thing is thrown in almost too casually, and Bond raises a brow.  
  
“You haven’t really experienced Berlin if you haven’t gone to one,” Quincy remarks.  
  
“My flight leaves tonight,” Bond says. “Perhaps another time.”  
  
Quincy nods. “Perhaps.”  
  
When Bond returns home, he finds a piece of paper with a number in his coat pocket.  
  
_Another time_ , it says.  
  
===  
  
The next time he’s in Berlin, it’s only for a layover. His flight isn’t until the next morning, and he’s booked in a hotel near the airport. He makes himself comfortable and watches a German talk show, trying to ignore the fact that he’s got a tin of Earl Grey loose tea in his luggage.  
  
Moneypenny, whom he had entrusted to help him procure it, had teased him endlessly up until he boarded his flight. Now, though, Bond wonders if he endured it all for nothing. He grabs his phone and sends a message to an unsaved number.  
  
In less than a minute, a reply comes containing an address, a time stamp, and nothing more. A quick check reveals it to be the location of an abandoned warehouse, which, in Bond's experience, is never good news. Abandoned warehouses are either a trap or something equally nefarious. Despite this, however, the Double O can't help but trust Quincy. Besides, Bond knows the real danger isn't in Quincy being an enemy of Queen and Country, but in something that's much harder to extricate himself from. In any case, the knives he has hidden on his person will have to do.   
  
At approximately 2200 hours, Bond emerges from his hotel in a light blue Trabant rental. The warehouse wasn’t hard to find, and neither was a parking spot, but locating his lovely bespectacled graduate student is proving a different matter altogether. He assiduously makes his way through the crowd, a remix of New Order's "Blue Monday" blasting off the speakers. He stands by the makeshift bar, orders a drink, and scans the dance floor, eyes sharp for any sign of Quincy. He’s been looking around for probably five minutes, glass empty, when he hears a familiar voice cut through the loud music.  
  
“Mr. Sterling.”  
  
Bond turns and sees Quincy smiling bashfully at him. This close, he can admire certain details of Quincy's face better. Long, dark lashes and sensual lips. Sensitive-looking ears and a beautiful nose. He doesn’t get a chance to reply nor compliment his companion, however, because Quincy puts his glass down on the counter, takes his hand, and leads him to the crowd of bodies in the middle.  
  
They lose themselves to the flashing lights and the incredibly loud music, Quincy never straying more than a few inches away from Bond. Bond, for his part, doesn’t think he can move away even if he tries. There seems to be an invisible vortex, sucking him closer and closer towards the other man. At one point, someone starts giving everyone shots from tiny plastic cups. Bond and Quincy both take one. Then the entire floor starts getting rowdier, with people jumping up and down to the music, and someone bumps into Quincy, causing him to spill his drink all over himself. Bond watches as Quincy, shirt soaked, brings a hand up to his lips, licking what remains of his drink, tongue tantalizingly taunting Bond. The thing is, Bond doesn't even think Quincy knows how sensual he's being. He drops his hands down to Quincy’s hips, pulling the latter closer.  
  
He feels more than hears Quincy’s sharp intake of breath. Using Bond's shoulders as leverage, the younger man rocks up against him once, then does it again, gasping wantonly into his ear as he does so. The agent was already half-hard from having Quincy in his arms, but having him rub up and down his body brings him to full hardness. He growls into Quincy’s neck. “Come back to mine.”  
  
Bond drives them back to his hotel in record speed, or at least, as fast as the Trabant could, which was at a fucking painful 150 mph. He very nearly doesn’t make it, the temptation to just stop the car and fuck the other man in the back seat rearing its head more than a few times. It doesn’t help that Quincy is determined to drive him insane with lust, spreading his legs in the passenger seat and making obscene noises as he presses his palm down on his cock.   
  
Once in the room, they make quick work of their clothes, Bond stowing the knives away while Quincy's preoccupied with shucking his clothes off. He’s barely removed his own pants when Quincy drags him down to bed, lips latching on to his, legs curling around his waist. They both groan at the sensation.  
  
“Been... wanting... this,” Quincy moans as he rubs himself against Bond, pre-come already smearing against the latter’s stomach.  
  
“Have you now...?” Bond grunts, his own hardness finding delicious friction against Quincy’s body. He pushes the other man's shoulders down and covers his body completely.  
  
“First time... I saw you... “ Bond pinches Quincy’s left nipple, earning himself another groan.   
  
Bond twists the nipple again, and that’s it. Quincy arches his back, surrenders his body to Bond, and comes with a cry. Bond knows he’s not going to last long himself. He reaches down for his own cock, but Quincy bats his hand away, and then all Bond feels is wet, hot, warmth. A few seconds later, he comes, with Quincy swallowing every last drop.  
  
“So...” Quincy says once they’re both cleaned up.  
  
Bond chuckles. “My flight isn’t until tomorrow morning.”  
  
“We have time then.”  
  
“Yes, we do.”  
  
They order room service and Bond shows Quincy the tin of Whittard Tea he brought over from London. Seeing his look of delight, Bond affirms that yes, all the teasing was, indeed, worth it. They talk about many other things, they kiss, they sleep, and they have sex two more times, but neither one brings up the possibility of anything beyond tonight.  
  
The next time Bond wakes up, it’s morning and Quincy is gone. He sees a message written in the hotel’s stationery.  
  
_Until next time_ , it says.  
  
===  
  
Bond is no stranger to one-night stands. In his chosen field, it’s practically a given, the phrase "a trail of bodies" not just applying to the dead. But Bond can't seem to classify Quincy as a one-night stand. Does one ponder on one-night stands being one-night stands often? It finally hits Bond when, as he listens to Tanner give him his next mission, he realizes that he's hoping to be assigned to Berlin again.  
  
It’s terrifying—Bond has not felt this way for anyone in a very long time. It’s even worse because Quincy is a civilian. Then again, it doesn’t seem like he's looking for anything more. He’s not messaged since their last encounter, which was more than two months ago, and Bond hasn’t either. And he won’t. Quincy is better off forgetting that Richard Sterling ever existed. Bond is under no illusions that he can live happily ever after with Quincy, not when he knows nothing about Bond.  
  
_He doesn't even know your name._

Sure, Quincy might wonder why Sterling never calls him back, but he’ll move on. He probably won’t even give Bond a second thought.  
  
So when Bond’s next mission puts him back on German soil, months later, he resolutely doesn’t visit the cafe nor does he torture himself by dropping by the neighborhood. It’s a shame, however, for had he done so, he would have avoided getting captured. He barely manages to activate his radio’s distress signal before he’s rendered unconscious by a well-placed needle to his neck.  
  
===  
  
When Bond regains consciousness, he almost wants to laugh upon seeing who has captured him. Sebastian Berger, one of the Berger Brothers from his mission in Berlin nearly a year ago, had somehow managed to escape prison a few months earlier. His brother wasn’t as fortunate.  
  
The man certainly bid his time, waiting for the right opportunity to stage a reunion. Bond wishes he were reuniting with someone else instead. Currently, he’s hanging suspended from the ceiling, hands and feet bound, having served as Berger’s personal punching bag for the last three hours. He half-listens to the drug dealer brag about his evil plans, someone's stint in prison certainly having inflated their ego.  
  
At the very least, he’s not upside down like that time in Italy.  
  
Berger leaves for a smoke, so Bond uses the few precious minutes he has to himself focusing on loosening the knots on his wrists.  
  
“Help is on the way, Bond,” Tanner says in his ear.  
  
Bond, ribs cracked and face swollen, has nearly forgotten that Tanner is still with him. He doesn't waste his breath on a reply, still too busy with the knots, but he must have made a sound to convey his displeasure.  
  
“We’re sorry, Bond,” Tanner rattles off. “Tracking you was... a challenge. The radio’s signal was being interfered with. Fortunately, we have a sleeper agent in town who’s managed to get through.”  
  
Bond grunts again as he successfully frees his hands. Tanner, seemingly adept at Double O-speak, continues. “We need better equipment, I know. Don’t worry, if all goes well, we might just have a new—”  
  
Bond doesn’t really hear the rest of his sentence, the sound of gunshots and not a few explosions drowning Tanner out. He makes quick work of the rope around his ankles and frees himself just as the door swings open. The next sequence of events unfolds like a bad '90s TV sitcom.   
  
“Sterling?!”  
  
Bond’s face would have echoed Quincy’s if it weren’t so inflamed.   
  
“Well, that explains a lot,” Quincy mutters. Bond is about to reply when he sees a shadow staggering behind the other man. He’s about to shout out a warning, but Quincy, who's always seemed to have the ability to read him, beats him to it and shoots the man dead.   
  
It’s the hottest thing Bond has ever seen.  
  
“I believe that’s the last of them, Mr. Sterling,” Quincy says as he goes up to Bond and puts his arm around his shoulders. “Or I should say, 007.”  
  
Bond chuckles, then winces when he feels his ribs complain.  
  
“Requesting evac and medical, please,” Quincy sighs, and Bond realizes that he, too, is wearing an earpiece. “007 here has several cracked ribs, definitely a broken nose, and multiple bruises on his upper torso and lower limbs.”  
  
A team meets them at the entrance—Bond rolls his eyes when he realizes he's been held in an abandoned warehouse—and he's delicately transferred on a stretcher. He doesn’t get a chance to see Quincy again before he’s transported back to London.  
  
===  
  
Bond is forced to stay home for three to four weeks. He’s ordered to put ice on his ribs, instructed to avoid any strenuous activity, and is given pain relievers to manage everything else. Moneypenny drops by a few times to make sure he’s following Medical’s orders, and every time she does, there’s a sly smile on her lips, like she knows something he doesn’t.  
  
Normally, he would try to coax it out of her, but these days, he has other things on his mind. He spends his time thinking about what happened in Berlin, going through all of his encounters with Quincy—if that were even his real name. Bond wonders how he missed it. Quincy remembered his face and his name months later even if they had only met twice. And that night at the rave, Quincy didn’t just manage to find him first, he had snuck up on Bond. He did it again when he left the hotel room without waking Bond. There was also the fact that he always seemed to be at the cafe. _Almost as if he were stationed there, Bond._  
  
And what about the ease with which the younger man took his departure—Bond wonders if that were Quincy simply being a cautious operative or Quincy just not being as interested.  
  
He realizes that he needs to know, and since Bond is not used to being idle, he makes plans.  
  
It’s his last week of forced bed rest, one more week before he gets to return to MI6 for a series of evaluations. Bond is packing a few clothes in a bag, when he hears a knock on the door. It’s probably Moneypenny, checking to make sure he doesn’t do anything to compromise his condition at the last minute. He has no plans of doing so, but he doesn’t think a quick flight counts as strenuous activity either.  
  
“You can either try to stop me or report me to M,” Bond says, not bothering to pause what he’s doing when he hears the front door open. “But I’d rather you just drive me to the airport.”  
  
“Going somewhere, Mr. Bond?”  
  
It’s a testament to Bond’s training that he doesn’t physically startle at the unexpected voice. Instead, he slowly puts the shirt he’s holding down on the bed and straightens himself.  
  
“I was thinking of going on a vacation,” Bond says.  
  
“Where to?” Quincy asks softly.  
  
“Berlin,” he answers.  
  
Bond doesn’t make it to Berlin, of course. He doesn't even make it out of his bedroom, not when he still has a week to go before he’s allowed to take a break from bed rest, much less take a flight. And to be honest, he doesn’t feel like pissing his new quartermaster so soon.  
  
In any case, he’ll have plenty of time to push the man's buttons, Bond thinks, as he watches Quincy, or Q as he’s actually now called, putter around his kitchen to make them some tea.  
  
Maybe they’ll even get to go back to Berlin.  
  
End

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're curious, the song playing at the warehouse is HEALTH's remix of New Order's "Blue Monday."


End file.
